


From Start to Finish

by foxysquid



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxysquid/pseuds/foxysquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The murderous history of Mr. Kristoph Gavin, who really only wanted to make the world a better and more orderly place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Start to Finish

William Morris once said that one should have nothing in one's home that was not useful or beautiful. Kristoph found this sentiment itself both beautiful and useful. He saw no need to limit it to items in the home. Everything in life should be either beautiful or useful--or why should it _be_ at all?

It was natural that he should make the idea a motto. Every man should have a motto, a guiding principle in life.

He read the phrase in a book as a child and thought to put it into effect almost at once. He was young, but wise. His mother bought a vase that he hated, decorated with garish, cartoonish sunflowers. As soon as Kristoph found himself alone with the vase, his mother safely across town visiting a neighbor, the nanny listening to music too loud in another part of the house, he took action. He lashed out and knocked the vase off the table. It shattered when it hit the floor. The brightly colored pieces that remained weren't any better, and they were of less use than the whole vase. With a frown, he gathered up all the pieces, took them outside, and buried them under the back porch.

Upon her return, his mother didn't take long to notice the change. "Kristoph, have you seen my new vase?"

"No, Mother." His shirt and hands were immaculate. There were no signs that he had been digging. "Would you like me to look for it for you?"

"No, that's fine, darling, thank you. How strange... It was right here."

It was that easy. After that, he found it no challenge to get rid of other mistakes: a bright pink blouse that didn't suit his mother, his father's orange tie, a toy clown an aunt gave him for his birthday, salt and pepper shakers shaped like a horse and cart, a beaded lamp. During that time, they went through a series of nannies and housekeepers and gardeners, as items continued to disappear, and his mother kept letting the help go. Did Mother suspect him? He was never sure, but her smile took on a peculiar, brittle quality. 

The brittleness could have had another cause, for Kristoph was soon distracted from his mission to beautify the house by a new arrival. He lost interest in trinkets and trifles in the face of the grand mistake of his parents' new child. Klavier made him forget about the decor. Mother and Father chose to spend the majority of their time holding Klavier, talking to him, and talking about him. Kristoph did not know what to do with such a small, bewildering, loud animal. Did it have a use?

That was not to say that Kristoph had given up entirely on improving his home. Some things demanded his attention, because they were active, alive. He disapproved of the quick, narrow insects that ran across the wall or over the bathroom floor. The fat beetles that flew against the windows, trying to get out, weren't much better. One year, they had mice, and the little things chewed through boxes and got into the food. The spiders that picked dim corners to weave their webs in could be forgiven. They were quiet and killed pests. As long as they weren't in his way, he let them live.

No one questioned his actions until his brother grew old enough to think critically. "Can't you take them outside instead?" Klavier asked him one day. To demonstrate, he cupped a beetle in his hands, then walked slowly and deliberately to the back door. He opened the door with one hand, raising his other hand toward the sky. Green and jewel-like, the beetle resting on his palm did attain a certain beauty in the sunlight. It hesitated, then spread its wings and flew away.

Kristoph considered, for the first time presented with evidence that his brother could be useful. Klavier resembled him: bright and golden. Klavier was clever, if incorrect. Kristoph decided to keep him.

Unfortunately, such good things could not be said of the neighbors' dog. It wasn't the animal's fault. It was poorly trained, and its owners left it out all night. What a shame. No animal should be allowed to suffer. Kristoph liked dogs. They were noble animals, especially when they did as they were told. He'd always wanted a dog. If he'd had one, he wouldn't have let it bark all night and keep everyone awake. The neighbors didn't deserve a dog. It was for the best.

People made a fuss about the most ridiculous little incidents. "That's terrible," said Kristoph, when his mother told him. He shaped his mouth into a frown. "I wonder who could have done such a thing?"

It wasn't until some months later that he realized he should have poisoned the neighbors instead.

For some reason--perhaps it was the naivety of youth--it hadn't occurred to him that it would be nearly as easy to kill _people_. Not until the accident. His father foolishly swerved to avoid a deer, and the car spun off the road and into the woods. He and Father were left alone together, in the car, beneath the trees. The sun was beginning to set, and from what Kristoph could glimpse of the sky through the wreck of the windshield and the branches overhead, the horizon seemed to be on fire: red and orange and gold. 

Kristoph was awake and uninjured, but the same was not true of his father. As the unconscious man bled onto the driver's seat, Kristoph turned his head and saw how unhappy he looked. His body was twisted into the undeniable shape of suffering. His breath was labored. Like any good son, Kristoph reached over and covered his father's nose and mouth. His body convulsed, but he did not awaken again.

When the police cars and the ambulance drove up, their lights flashing, it was like the fire in the sky grew more vast and more dazzling. Not until someone spoke through the window and asked him if he was hurt did Kristoph glance down and realize that he was injured after all: the back of hand had been torn open. He was bleeding quite badly, and his trousers were covered with blood. At the sight, he suddenly began to scream. He was so distraught, it took several EMTs to restrain him and transfer him to the ambulance. It was a regrettable lapse on his part, but understandable considering the circumstances, surely.

Kristoph was calm again by the time he was allowed to return home. His hand was wrapped neatly in a white bandage. He swore he would not allow himself to react like that again. So much emotion was unseemly, and he had been forced to talk to a therapist, who had asked him repeatedly about his outburst and the nature of the accident.

There were unforeseen consequences to Kristoph's charitable actions in the car. His mother and Klavier were needlessly distressed. Both of them cried, and then the three of them were obligated to attend Father's funeral. Kristoph kept his gaze fixed on the deep, rectangular hole that had been dug into the earth. Although he could appreciate the poetry of the image as his father's coffin sank into the ground, the entire affair struck him as a meaningless charade.

He regarded his mother's grief in a similar light. How useless it was. Father was dead and would not return, so what possible reason could she have to stay in the dark all day, weeping? She stopped taking care of herself properly. When she did emerge from her room, she was a mess, her hair uncombed, and her face lined and sallow.

She began to abuse him verbally, for no other reason than that he had survived the accident and Father had not. "I don't want to look at you!" she said. She shouldn't have raised her voice.

Kristoph learned an important lesson from his father's death. Most problems had straightforward solutions. His mother's doctors had given her a variety of pills to take, and she had bought some others for herself at the pharmacy. It took but a few weeks of studying and planning for Kristoph to determine how to best ensure that she would accidentally take a fatal dose.

A knock came on the bathroom door while he was tampering with the medication. "Kristoph, are you in there?"

"Yes, Klavier."

"What are you doing?"

It wasn't right that there should be a note of suspicion in Klavier's voice. Kristoph would have to be more careful around him. "I have a stomachache. I'll be right out."

Once Kristoph was sure she was dead, he called emergency services. The police said it was a suicide. How awful that was, but these things happened when people began to behave irrationally.

If one life didn't mean anything, how could two lives have meaning? When the value of a life was zero, no amount of adding more zeroes could make the sum larger. The only things that had value were beauty and usefulness, and most people had neither. Once one understood that, everything else was easy.

He was not old enough to be named as Klavier's guardian when their parents died, but he was gifted, and he knew the law. Foster parents and social workers were easily dealt with. It was unfortunate that, by the time he regained control of Klavier, his brother had picked up these foolish notions about becoming a _prosecutor_ (of all things) and a rock star (which was possibly even worse).

"I want to find murderers and put them away," he said, when Kristoph asked him to explain himself. "I want to uncover the truth."

Was it Kristoph's imagination, or were those pointed statements? "How noble of you, Klavier."

"Daryan and I are going to start a band."

"How very creative." He toyed with the idea of putting an end to these endeavors. Klavier was not useful to him now--but there was something about him that Kristoph wanted to preserve. What was it? Was it beauty? Kristoph tried to answer that question, but he couldn't. Questions that he couldn't answer annoyed him, so he pushed it aside.

If consorting with the kind of people who became _police officers_ and playing _rock music_ made Klavier happy, Kristoph wouldn't stop him, but perhaps it was better if they kept their association uncomplicated. Yes, he should keep his distance. He didn't like what he saw in Klavier's eyes when Klavier looked at him. Klavier was his brother. Brothers knew each other best, didn't they? Klavier saw him. That fascinated Kristoph, as much as it repulsed him.

It was as if Klavier could almost look through him and see the loudmouthed young law student who had consistently scored higher than Kristoph, or the woman who had insisted on following him home more than once, or the waiter who had ruined his shoes and pants with an ill-timed stumble and a cascade of soup. 

Kristoph could not dispatch Klavier, but there were other ways to deal with people. Klavier wished to be a prosecutor. Very well. Kristoph would make him a joke of a prosecutor. He would embarrass him in court, in full view of everyone. There was no disgrace like a public disgrace.

Assuring that Klavier's first case would be against him was difficult, but not impossible. Assuring he would win was another matter. More of a challenge, but not beyond him. He obtained the necessary forgery, and the case they were both assigned to was suitably high-profile: the trial of the magician, Zak Gramarye. There would be extensive media coverage. Klavier's humiliation would be complete. Kristoph was confident in his success, because he had never had any failures before.

It was quite by accident that he bumped into that man. He was walking down the courthouse corridor, completely content, when someone rushing past rushed a little too close to him and elbowed him. Kristoph stumbled back, dropping his briefcase, his practiced smile twitching. He never dropped things.

"Hey, I'm so sorry!" The thoughtless man stopped and bent to pick up the fallen briefcase, presenting it to him with an apologetic grin. "I got a bit behind schedule today, and I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"That's fine. These things happen," said Kristoph, quickly taking his case back. Fortunately, it didn't seem to have been scuffed. He preferred not to be obligated to buy a new briefcase when this one suited him so well. "Thank you."

"Welcome." The man must have meant what he'd said about being behind schedule, because he was already turning to leave, that ridiculous grin still plastered on his face. "Sorry again. I've really got to go. See you around!"

Kristoph turned to a young attorney who happened to be lingering in the doorway of the defendant lobby nearby. "Who was that?" Kristoph asked her.

"That's Phoenix Wright. Haven't you heard of him?"

Who hadn't heard of the infamous Phoenix Wright? Kristoph had read about him extensively, but he hadn't been able to connect the still photographs of Wright that he'd seen with the racing, reckless man he'd just encountered. The man seemed so--chaotic. Kristoph despised chaos. "Of course," he said. "What an honor to have met him."

"Yes, he's amazing, isn't he?"

Kristoph found himself able to control his smile again. "I'm a great admirer of his work." 

That was the beginning of Kristoph's end. The very next day, everything was in ruins, his plans undone, and all because of Phoenix Wright. With a quick and desperate change of plans, he did manage to disgrace Phoenix, but in the process, he unwittingly made Klavier a media darling: the brash new prosecutor who had brought down the famed Phoenix Wright and exposed his corruption. That had been a miscalculation. It wasn't like him to be so rash.

"I don't understand how you knew about that forgery," said Klavier, standing in Kristoph's office, refusing to take a seat.

Kristoph smiled from behind his desk. "I told you, the forger had a change of heart."

"Ja, but--"

"You won. What is the problem?" It was only a problem for Kristoph, but assuring Klavier's victory had been a necessary evil. If he couldn't humiliate his brother, he wouldn't allow someone else to do it.

"The problem is that I don't want to win if I can't get the right verdict."

"Oh, Klavier." Kristoph almost pitied him. "That's a fine sentiment, but I think you're being a bit paranoid, don't you?"

Klavier sighed before replying, "Ja, maybe."

"You should talk to your therapist about it. I don't mind that you have these delusions about me--I understand that it's an illness--but it's better if you talk to someone about them."

Klavier's lips narrowed, and he glanced away. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Kristoph."

Kristoph nodded, regarding his brother levelly across his desk. "I know you mean well. You did a fine thing. Wright deserved his downfall."

Klavier turned toward him again, his eyes lighting up. "Then why did you speak up for him?"

"Trust me. You don't need to worry about that." 

Klavier kept looking at him, and the light in his eyes was far too close to becoming the light of realization. It would be seven years before he spoke to Klavier again. As for the question Klavier had asked him, it was easily answered, but Kristoph could not tell him the real answer. Phoenix Wright was of limited use, and he was not beautiful. When Kristoph first met him, he was wearing a blue suit and a red tie-- _primary_ colors. The outfit he adopted after his disgrace was no better and probably worse. He was messy, unpredictable, disorganized, everything Kristoph was not. Kristoph had decided to kill him.

Yet when he was within Phoenix Wright's orbit, things had a way of going awry. First, he tried adding a special seasoning to Phoenix's borscht. "Oops, sorry about that," Phoenix said, wryly regarding the spilled contents of his bowl. A few droplets had landed on the cuff of Kristoph's sleeve. "Must have slippery fingers today. Maybe it's all that piano playing, right?"

"Yes, perhaps you're suffering from strain."

Kristoph tried sweetening Phoenix's beloved grape juice. "Would you look at that?" Phoenix asked, shaking his head woefully. "Got it all over my hoodie. I probably shouldn't like a drink that stains so badly. But I've got some good news!"

"What's that?" asked Kristoph, keeping his hands beneath the table so Phoenix couldn't see them tremble.

"I've got a few spares at home."

"Isn't that nice?"

Kristoph was a poisoner. What else was he supposed to do? He did his best. His attempts to get Phoenix to fall down the stairs or stumble into traffic or off a bridge were admittedly more amateur and equally unsuccessful. Phoenix laughed, meeting Kristoph's gaze and holding it. "Losing my badge sure made me a lot more accident prone, didn't it?"

Phoenix Wright wouldn't die, but he did have one use. He made it possible for Kristoph to find Zak Gramarye. 

Kristoph wasn't sorry for anything he had done. The bottle in his hand, the swift arc through the air, the heavy contact with Gramarye's skull: what a wonderful feeling. Making the world a better place. The only drawback was that Kristoph was ultimately charged with the murder.

It was as if Phoenix was anathema to murderers, as if there were some quality in him that unearthed them, destroyed them. No, that wasn't possible. What a disorderly notion, worthy of Phoenix himself. These things happened, that was all. From the beginning of life to its end.

"Kristoph, can I ask you a question?" asked Phoenix, years later, a row of bars dividing them.

Why did he keep agreeing to see Phoenix when Phoenix came to visit? It did interrupt the monotony of his life, but monotony was preferable to Phoenix's disarray. He couldn't understand it, but then, why did Phoenix choose to visit him? Perhaps it was a desire to know more that drove the man to the prison--not truly often, but often enough, again and again. "Yes, what is it, Phoenix?"

"Why did you do it?"

Kristoph began to laugh, softly. "What a question." It was difficult to stop laughing, once he had started. There was no more need to control himself, now that it was over. He laughed and laughed, until Phoenix finally seemed to realize that he wasn't going to stop.

After Phoenix left, it was time for lunch. The guard who came with his food was a new one. Kristoph couldn't help but notice how carelessly he banged the tray down. It hit the table with an ugly clatter, and a small amount of food went flying through the air. Kristoph regarded the man thoughtfully.

Oh no. That wouldn't do at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pw_contest on LJ, for the prompt "start". Thanks to plutokitty for the helpful beta.


End file.
